


Songstress of Ishgard

by HawkSong



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Cameos, Collaboration, Established Relationship, F/M, Ishgard (Final Fantasy XIV), Ishgard Politics (Final Fantasy XIV), Ishgard Restoration (Final Fantasy XIV), Music, Negotiations, Old Friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29661477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawkSong/pseuds/HawkSong
Summary: Nightbird Kevala has accepted the position of Songstress of Ishgard, and the monumental task of not only performing music, but somehow unifying all the musicians and artists of the city into a cohesive cultural whole, to present a new image of Ishgard to the rest of the Alliance.This is not going to be easy...
Relationships: Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Songstress of Ishgard

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation from "A Song in Your Heart" and spans the time between patch 3.3 of Heavensward and the beginning of Stormblood.
> 
> Several other writers' OCs will show up from time to time in this story, so I would like to thank them in the chapters where their characters appear, and will add to this starting note as I go along!  
> First and foremost, my deepest thanks to DelorraMontrachet for her OC Gabriel Victoriene and for her invaluable help with RP and brain storming!

Promises

Nightbird set her tea cup down, and made a notation in the margins of the paper in front of her. Absently she ate the last wedge of cheese as she continued to read the document Ser Aymeric had sent to her.

Estinien was gone once more. He had taken the time to speak with his friends among the dragoons, and with Alphinaud, but he had been determined to go out into the world for a time. She was not worried; with their bond, she understood more than ever the restlessness in his soul. His motivations might be murky to others – to himself, even. But for Nightbird it was a simple and logical matter: he needed time alone, time to think, time to make decisions. He was no longer the Azure Dragoon, but he yet remained a son of Ishgard. He would never quite be the man he had been before his possession, and in these early days as the city began to piece itself back together, the people were not quite ready to accept him as just another citizen.

She had felt it in him, the day after they had returned from that first journey. Some folk had looked on him as a hero, and that had disturbed him. _“I have earned none of this admiration,”_ he had grumbled to her. But the way that the more timid among the people looked at him – the way that small children hid behind their mothers at his approach – _that_ wounded him.

She hoped his travels would help clear his mind and allow him to come to terms with all of it. He had the opportunity to set his life on a new path, and he had many options open to him. Weighty decisions even for one so self-assured as Alphinaud, or a man of deep and unshakable faith like Aymeric. For Estinien – broken, and healing – even more of a difficult task, to determine: “What now?”

So he was off on his journey. Every night she spent a little time just thinking of him, sending affection down their bond towards him, knowing that he would feel what she projected. On occasion he even responded.

Meanwhile, she was working her way through the astonishingly complicated dance required to make her Songstress of Ishgard in fact and not just in name.

She had known there would be opposition – had in fact predicted to Ser Aymeric that he was going to have a battle on his hands, trying to make an outsider like her into the custodian of Ishgardian culture, of the story of his people. Especially because she would have to work with various persons within the city just what Ishgard's new story would be.

For a thousand years the Ishgardians had mostly kept to themselves, insular and aloof; even when they had yet been members of the Alliance, before the fall of Dalamud, they had not been the friendliest of allies. And after the Calamity, they had withdrawn ever more sharply, as if they sought to bury themselves behind walls of ice and snow as well as stone. Dozens of Ishgardian small-folk had fled their lands entirely, no longer able to eke a living from the mountains that had once supported them. Those folk had brought their stories with them, their old songs, their imperfect understanding of the history of the Holy See. Popular opinion, and so-called “common knowledge,” stated clearly that Ishgard was a land of ice, its people as frozen at heart as the mountains around them, locked in eternal war with dragon-kind.

The ripples of these recent events were still spreading, still changing that common knowledge; adventurers had already been talking about the friendliest of Ishgardian outposts, and had added Whitebrim to Camp Dragonhead in their tales, thanks to Berylla and Alphinaud's efforts. More and more, the walls of distance, of isolation, had eroded. The ice had well and truly been broken in that first battle on the Steps of Faith, with many a tale told of the bravery and selflessness of Ishgardian Knights.

Nightbird had heard from Alphinaud that there was even some tentative talk of accepting a few knights errant, or even dragoons, into the ranks of the lesser Scions. With no need now to keep vigil against most of the dragons, there would be young warriors, fully trained and restless, who would need to be kept out of trouble somehow.

But the moment that those young hotheads got out into the wider world, they would surely be asked for tales of their homeland...and right now, no one was quite sure what to say about Ishgard.

It was Nightbird's first task to help guide them.

She had sent out dozens of letters (it felt like hundreds), and she had contacted minstrels and musicians, teachers and historians and other scholarly sorts, inviting them to visit, to assess the city for themselves, with an eye to advising her as to what might benefit Ishgard most in her bid to reintroduce herself to the rest of Eorzea.

Ser Aymeric had his hand full, and then some, handling not only his normal duties as Lord Commander (duties that now involved far more than ever), and his tasks as Speaker for the House of Lords and overall leader of Ishgard – but also in attempting to kick start the reconstruction of the worst-damaged quarter of the city, while simultaneously lifting the harsh punishments leveled at heretics.

Hundreds of years of habit and hatred do not vanish overnight, as he was learning over and over again. It was quite the miracle that he was not losing his temper on a daily basis.

She half smiled. Berylla likely had a bit to do with that. Her boundless energy had been turned to helping with the Restoration project; her truly ridiculous number of acquaintances among the adventurers of Eorzea had spread the word, bringing dozens of willing hands to the effort. The Warrior of Light herself could be found spending hours among the broken stones of the Mendicant's Court, helping to cook up enormous amounts of food. If it had not been for Alphinaud and Aymeric, Nightbird might have believed the common gossip that the Warrior of Light was living full time among the laborers. Most folk believed her to be completely devoted to – and occupied with – those mundane tasks.

Alphinaud's visits to Nightbird were much fewer, but she was aware that the young scholar's affection for the tall warrior was only growing. It was from him that she heard about Berylla's explorations of the Sea of Clouds, and her adventures with the sky pirates there.

And, it was from the scholar that she heard how often the warrior did _not_ sleep at House Fortemps.

The three Scions still had the same small rooms they had been granted on their arrival; Alphinaud was in a position to know well the comings and goings of his friend... and he had worried more than once to Nightbird, always dancing around the edges of his true suspicions as to where Berylla was spending a good half of her nights.

The bard snorted quietly. She also spoke regularly with Ser Aymeric – and the ease with which he spoke of the Warrior of Light told her much that he did not directly admit.

Berylla was almost certainly sleeping with the Lord Commander, and Alphinaud was doing his best to pretend otherwise.

Estinien did not know of these developments, and Nightbird had no intention of discussing any of it with him – with anyone, really. Such things were private affairs. But she could not help being rather amused at the growing tensions. The whole situation might have been plucked from a bawdy song or comical play. She would simply watch and see what transpired.

Besides, she had no time for worrying over-much about romantic entanglements that were months away from resolving themselves.

She met three times a week now with the Master of Voices – a slightly misleading title for the man in charge of _all_ the musical activities within the Vault. Once a week, Ser Aymeric joined those meetings; therefore once a week, things actually got done. The Master of Voices was deeply unhappy with Nightbird's very existence, and though he was not overtly hostile, he was also not at all helpful in the planning for a new Conservatory of Music. He was old, and harped on tradition to an exasperating degree.

She met nearly every day with other musicians, as well, mostly in an endless round of discussions and debates as to what “counted” as truly Ishgardian music. Plenty of the high minded House musicians who worked for the nobility were loathe to include tavern tunes and bawdy bar ballads among their cherished hymns and motets. Equally few of the “common minstrels” of the city had any respect for the sacred music of the Holy See, calling it boring at best.

Trying to unite such wildly varied opinions on any topic was challenging to say the least.

But the document Aymeric had sent her...her lips curved as she finished reading. There might, at last, be hope for a way to compromise.

She made one more note, and then finished the food on her tray before leaving the table. She set her tray outside in the hall, and settled in at her writing desk. It was time to write one more letter of her own, and to lay plans for what she hoped would be a most productive meeting.

*

Nightbird's suite was very toasty today, which was particularly wonderful with an ice storm is bearing down on the city. Spring in Ishgard was...chaotic at best. Or, as some of Nightbird's earthier friends among the crofters put it, “Spring is a right bitch.” The bitter wind rattling the shutters, however, could not penetrate into the warm sitting room, where not only a fire but a small radiator - one of the Ironworks' recent offerings made available here in the city - kept the whole room very cozy indeed. The table was set for two, with an array of fine pastries and delicately constructed sandwiches on tiered trays, and fragrant tea - Dragonhead Black, in fact - keeping warm in the teapot. Nightbird finished adding cream to her tea, and smiled across the table at Gabriel. “I am very glad you were willing to come and speak with me.”

“Certainly, although I swore it would be a cold day in the Seven hells before I came back to Ishgard.” Gabriel added a small bit of sweetener to his tea. “Now this is a proper cup of tea. Not overly sweet, like someone we both know prefers it.”

Nightbird chuckled. “Indeed.”

“I confess I was most astonished,” she continued, “when Ser Aymeric told me about you. I would never have expected the illustrious Master of the Sultana's College for Composition to hail from Ishgard.” Her smile was wry. “I cannot but imagine that a very tempestuous story lies behind your time away from home.”

“Trust Aymeric to convey only what is necessary! There is a story behind it, and now that Thordan is dead, I can breathe easier. I was a conveniently placed singer who managed to get some information out of Ishgard and to Aymeric when he was dependent solely on what The Holy See chose to let him have.”

“I see. I think many of us will breathe easier now that Thordan is no more.” Her brow darkened for an instant, recalling the wounds Aymeric had sustained and that she had healed, that fateful day. “I should hope, however, that you will be able to spend some few days here in much happier circumstances. I feel very much in need of your advice.”

“I must admit, I was intrigued when I received Aymeric's message. And, getting me intrigued is one way to get me to stay someplace.”

Nightbird laughed quietly. “Well, curiosity shall hopefully be its own reward. Quite honestly, Ser Aymeric has laid a task at my feet that I am...feeling somewhat intimidated about.”

She went on to explain the Lord Speaker's enchanting vision for the future of Ishgard's relations with the rest of Eorzea; the ways in which he hoped to change the city's image to shed some of the old attitudes and reflect the new path that the people of Ishgard now walked. Even if some of them were quite reluctant to follow his lead... “And I am baffled as to how to best get through to the Master of Voices,” she finished. She bit her lip. “He acts as if I plan to personally attack him, much of the time, and I cannot seem to soothe him in any effective way. He frets and frowns, and ignores my words unless and until Ser Aymeric reinforces them. And I cannot keep begging Aymeric to attend meetings with us.”

She sipped her tea, and sighed a little. “And here I thought contacting the dragons about their music would be the hardest part of this.”

Gabriel put his cup down and his demeanor changed slightly. “Dragons, you say? Oh my...I should like to hear more about _that_. But first, the Master of Voices. He was always a pompous chocobo's arse, and, now that I'm older, I realize he is a total waste of a leadership position. He was in a position to help so many people, and take a stand on an important issue, but he wouldn't. He was far too concerned with being known for 'his' music. He should be relegated to copying dusty old texts.”

Nightbird was glad she was not sipping her tea at that moment, or she might have choked a bit. She hid her grin behind her hand for an instant, and managed not to laugh out loud.

“He has certainly been very possessive in the way he speaks of the music,” she said after she had regained control. “I had assumed it was mere pride in the music itself, and that perhaps my status as an outsider was the issue. But you believe his reluctance is more tied up in personal pride?”

“Couerls don't change their spots. He was an egomaniac and completely narcissistic. He could have been a brilliant conductor, had he been less of a showman and more of a musician's heart. A tremendous part is personal pride, but remember, Ishgard was very narrow-minded before Aymeric became Lord Speaker. The culture reinforced its xenophobia and its other utterly unfair phobias. So, being an 'outsider,' he most likely feels that you have no business in Ishgard's music.”

“Oh yes.” Her lips twisted. “He has made that abundantly clear, though I doubt he knows that I heard him speaking in such a manner. To my face, he is exactingly polite. But...well.” She toyed with one of the locks of her hair that had turned white after her ordeals at the Steps of Faith. “I don't suppose Aymeric can get him dismissed...? I am uncertain just who oversees him within the Holy See. Since there is as yet still no archbishop, and from what I am told there shall not be another...” She chewed her lip a little. “Although that also begs the question - who could replace him? He does have twenty years' experience working with these musicians...hmm.”

Gabriel reached for a cookie and took a long look at it. He then looked up at Nightbird with a wicked grin on his face. “Now, my lady, if I didn't know better, I would think you just offered ME a job!”

Gabriel gave a laugh that only someone who enjoys shock value can give. “While I have no legal background and have not followed Ishgardian politics, save for where it concerns Aymeric, perhaps one of the two Houses?”

Nightbird's ears twitched. “Hmm.”

“At the risk of sounding conceited, which I am to a certain extent, one solution could be simply my presence in Ishgard, and especially in your company. Lets say there is quite a bit of history that could be used to your advantage here.”

She wondered what Gabriel meant, but she decided to leave that question for now, and instead focused on what she knew of the Houses. Haillenarte had always been patrons of the arts, but none of them were involved with the music within the church itself; Fortemps meanwhile preferred to keep a chamber group on hand - a much smaller number of musicians than Lord Haillenarte's prized orchestra.

Durendaire was full of dour sorts, hard working to be sure, but they employed only a single musician - and he was not a vocalist.

Dzemael, on the other hand...that House was stuffed full of music enthusiasts. Not all of them were talented, but they had made a very serious offer to hire her as a music teacher and to lead family groups in various musical evenings. And no few of the Dzemael family's younger sons had taken vows...

She looked up at Gabriel and offered up the idea. “Perhaps a younger man would be better for the job. Did you work with any of the Dzemael family during your time at the Holy See?”

“Throughout my time with the Choeur, there were no fewer than 4 young Dzemael fellows involved. We had a horrible time keeping the youngest out of the eyes of the Castrati Squad. Fortunately, his voice changed before they could get back. He was always open minded, and if he has continued to study music, he could be a viable candidate, or at the very least, someone you could count on to support your cause. If there's anything the Dzemael family love more than breeding, it's music.”

Nightbird thought about Felina, and Pale, and the hints she'd gotten in dreams since the night of their bonding. She smiled. “They do, at that.”

“Having you showing an interest in House Dzemael, and having me as your and Aymeric's guest in Ishgard, at the very least, it will make the Master of Voices realize he is more expendable than he thinks he is.”

“Just how does one go about replacing him, might I ask? I had been under the impression that his was a lifetime position.” She grinned, showing a bit of fang. “Clearly, an invention of his own mind, but still.”

“Hmm....are you opposed to a bit of extortion?”

Nightbird's grin widened.

“It's not something that I would want to use lightly, and only as a last resort, but I do have the means to cause him sufficient embarrassment that he would have no choice but to step down.” Gabriel tilted his head. “How much as Aymeric told you about how he and I met, and why I sought him out?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, really. Only that you were a dear friend to him, and that he knew no one better qualified to aid me in my work.”

“He is a good friend. Perhaps one day, I can share the entire story with you. But, to keep it short, I can lay multiple counts of complicity to rape of 8 people from childhood to adulthood, and the death of at least one.”

Nightbird's ebony skin went ashen, and she blinked rapidly. “...oh my.” Her ears went flat, and under the table, she gripped her tail, suppressing the memory that wanted to well up in her mind.

“My dear lady, I hope I wasn't too blunt?” Gabriel reached his hand across the table, palm open, but not making a move to take hers, simply offering.

After a moment, Nightbird took his hand, and squeezed gently. “You would have had no way to know,” she managed, “but as I have survived some...similar unpleasantness... It was simply a bit of a shock.” She met his eyes, letting him see a little of her pain, trying to let him know that she understood, without needing to say more. It was not a matter for words, this pain that they both knew.

Gabriel returned her squeeze. “Then, you understand why I would want to only use this as a last resort. Having the Master of Music step down voluntarily would be ideal, but I am prepared to take this all the way to the House of Lords and Commons if necessary. It's time he was brought to some sort of justice.”

Nightbird nodded once. “Then we shall hold that in reserve. What would you suggest we do first?” A thought occurred to her. “I am to meet with him tomorrow morning. Perhaps...you could accompany me?”

Gabriel gives Nightbird a wolfish smile “I would be delighted!”

*

Estinien rested, his back pressed up against the trunk of the tree in which he perched. The branches of this tree were fully wide enough for him to walk on them; the Shroud had many such massive old trees, and he found that pleasing. Enough so that he could ignore the mild sting of the unfriendly reception he had endured down in the village of Bentbranch.

He had known it was likely that he'd be somewhat unwelcome among the forest folk. Especially given that none of them recognized him. No matter. He had renewed his supplies, and the hunting was quite good here; none of the local wildlife was ferocious enough to be a concern. This part of the Shroud was, frankly, a veritable vacation spot.

Soon he would be back in the familiar icy hills of Coerthas. He had been out and about for almost three weeks, now, and had traveled all over Eorzea in that time. On his way out of Ishgard he had taken a path that led through Mor Dhona and directly into Thanalan.

He had not enjoyed his tour of Thanalan – too dry, too flat, too open for his liking. The heat had at first been exhilarating...until it became punishing. Many of the folk in Thanalan recognized his clothing as Ishgardian. Once they had seen his lance, they had instantly intuited his identity. Their keen interest in him had been rather disconcerting. He was glad enough to reach the ocean and take ship from Vesper Bay to Limsa Lominsa.

The seafarers' city was fascinating – though to his disgruntlement they did _not_ appreciate dragoons leaping about on their rooftops. He had enjoyed the pleasures of anonymity, but it had made running afoul of the law quite inconvenient. So his stay there had been shorter than he might otherwise have liked. No matter; he would have chances to return, most like.

Vylbrand was nearly as hot as Thanalan's deserts, but the ocean breezes and the humidity made that heat softer and somehow easier for him to bear. The highlands were the most enjoyable – warmer than the hills of Coerthas had ever been, even before the Calamity, but their raw wild beauty spoke to him in ways he would not easily admit to anyone else.

Once he had explored those lands, however, he had deemed it time to start north once more. He could easily have taken advantage of the aetheryte network and been home in moments – but he was yet restless, and had instead chosen to take himself back to Camp Drybone, from whence he could travel through the Black Shroud.

The swamps in the southern reaches of the forest lands – he had been afforded quite a bit of entertainment there. Trees in plenty and strange rock formations that practically begged him to leap among them, and creatures just strong enough to give him a little thrill without presenting any great threat. The guards along that southern road were too grateful for help in culling the beasts to treat him with discourtesy.

Quarrymill, on the other hand, had been so full of folk that he had stayed barely an hour before taking once more to the road. There was a great deal of bustle in the walled town – _something_ had attracted an unusual number of adventurers. He had no interest in being recruited into “another Palace run,” whatever that meant.

And so he had continued on his way: exploring the eastern parts of the Shroud, though only to a point. That part of the forest was overrun with moogles and sylphs, neither of which groups were inclined to welcome him. Frankly, he did not want them to welcome him.

And now he was here, in the heart of the forest...which was also where the “elementals” held the strongest sway. Those ephemeral entities – which were conveniently invisible and silent – had apparently taken a dislike to him. He had the feeling that it was the conjurers and Speakers themselves who disliked him. He snorted. No matter. He was not planning to make a home here among the trees. The “elementals” could tolerate his presence for a night or two more.

The deep forest lacked one thing that he was surprised to discover made him mildly uneasy. One could not see the sun, for the most part. Night fell without much warning, and in the very thickest groves, there was no difference between dawn and noon in terms of visibility. This was, of course, the reason for the forest's moniker of the Black Shroud; but only here did the ancient forest yet live up to the name.

Still, if one was a reasonably accomplished dragoon, it was possible to get a glimpse of sky – one need only climb the tallest trees, and presently the canopy would thin...

His current perch was one such thin place among the branches. Not long ago, one of the forest giants had toppled, making a space – far below, a riot of shrubs and young trees were locked in silent green battle with each other for the choicest spots of sunlight. And here...

He leaned his head against the bark of the tree and gazed up at the emerging stars. Like this, he could almost pretend he was merely lounging about on a tower back in Ishgard, in the time before the Calamity. He could shut his eyes and recall those slow, sleepy summer evenings that he had once been able to spend in quiet conversation with Aymeric and Haurchefant, the three of them still young and stupid and full of hopes.

For an instant his heart clenched. He missed Haurchefant, when he thought too long about what home had once meant to him. Nothing was the same there, now. Nothing would ever be quite the same. And he had found himself questioning, more and more, whether he could truly stand living in Ishgard.

But his brooding was interrupted by a warmth from deep inside, a wash of emotion that didn't originate with him. He did not try to repress the smile that stretched his lips. He no longer had to concentrate on his bond with Nightbird, and so his eyes stayed open as he let his spirit reach for hers.

They could not exchange words, of course, but the feelings were more than enough. These little moments had kept him company all this time. He was glad of it. He did not wish to brood, did not want to let his mind latch onto the many evils he had seen, the suffering he had authored. And yet his mind would not leave such dark thoughts alone, as if picking at a wound.

Nightbird's presence had rescued him from such brooding, and more than once.

He let her soothe him now, as she had done before. He stretched himself back along their bond, sending his feelings towards her, as if he might wrap his arms around her even though they were so very far apart. His return to Ishgard was as inevitable as a compass needle finding north once more. He could ignore the pull on his heart if he wanted to. He yearned for her, and that yearning was nearly as sweet in its way as touching her was.

He shut his eyes, marveling just a little at the changes wrought in him. A year ago he would never have credited such softness in himself. He would have scoffed at the sentimentality he now craved.

Well, he had been an idiot, and that was hardly news. Time now to set aside that foolishness, for another sort of foolishness perhaps – but one far less bitter and lonely.

It was time to go home to his beloved.

*

Nightbird lay in her bed, and smiled into the darkness. He would return soon. She could feel the eagerness in him, the way his spirit hummed with anticipation.


End file.
